On Each Other's Team
by ReadItAllInOneGo
Summary: Two couples fight to find their place in a world where every spouse is divided into one of two categories: Careers and Domestics. It isn't fair, but it is life. Dystopia AU. Faberry/Brittana.
1. Chapter 1: Teaser

Like most things, it began with the end of the war.

The government found that after the rebellion, society needed to be repaired.

Too many liberties, after all, had proved to create a society of unrest. Even worse, the years before the rebellion had uncovered a disastrous trend: people, given free reign over their lives, tended to delay families, marriage, and children to alarming rates. Officials were certain the weakened state of the family was the cause of the rebellion, and such destruction needed to be stopped at all costs.

Even more concerning to the officials was the unequal distribution of the workforce. It seemed that too many citizens wanted to obtain cushy official jobs, leaving the newly reformed society without the base labor source it desperately needed to rebuild. After months of debate, it was decided. Citizens would be happiest, the government proclaimed, if the Officials took a greater role in people's everyday lives.

Skeptics would point out that the Officials seemed more concerned with the threat to their own livelihoods, but that was the type of talk that only existed in hushed whispers of empty halls.

Instead, most people kept their heads down and accepted the rule of the government through its Officials without a second glance. Each child was educated by Officials until their eighteenth birthday. On that day, each new citizen had two options. They could be married by "selection", or be sorted through the Officials' mate coordination system. Marriage by selection was the equivalent of being in love, and though disfavored by the Officials, was a way of appeasing those most critical of the new government.

Additionally, to cut down on government expenses, each spouse would be given different assignments. One spouse would stay home as the domestic partner (known as the "Domestic") while the other (the "Career") would be required to work, vote, and participate in any Official business. This allowed the Officials to allocate resources and save unnecessary waste by designating one "point of contact" for Government business. This was a modern society, a _new beginning_, so there was no need to discriminate between heterosexual and homosexual couples.

It was all bullshit.

Effectively, the new government created two separate classes. One with the ability to do whatever they wanted within the confines of the law, and the other to be almost completely crippled. But people found a way to make it work. After all, there was not much of a choice.

However, the government quickly caught on to the schemes of many to opt out of the Official program. For the first few years after the new regime, parents would encourage their children to marry by selection, if only to circumvent Official involvement and to choose their own destiny. But to the Officials, these radicals bordered on fighting for the very thing that destroyed the previous establishments: liberty. And that was not acceptable. Thus, a "compromise" was made. Individuals could select whether to opt out of the Official mate selection system, but they would then be unable to choose their future career or status as a domestic or official partner. Officials believed the selection penalty would be strong enough to make every citizen think twice about avoiding the mate selection system.

But even then, this was not enough to spur the rapid growth of the labor force the Officials needed. The new regime had to rebuild and while the top priority had been the physical infrastructure to support the government, the labor force had been crippled by the previous wars. Especially since those in actual positions of authority did not want to have to debase themselves with _menial _ labor.

So it was decided.

Every three years, every woman in a heterosexual couple and the domestic in each lesbian couple were to begin fertility treatments designed to encourage re-population as quickly as possible. At the end of the six week treatment, lesbian couples were administered IVF through sperm "donations" forced on gay couples. And, in the supernal act of mercy, each Mayor that oversaw the local officials and enforcement were granted the power to give three deferrals—or exceptions—every year.

It was not a fair system, but it was life.


	2. Chapter 2: Beginnings (SRBQ)

You sigh as you wipe down your kitchen countertop for what feels like the millionth time today. Your fingers catch on the drying globs of pancake batter and you can't help but smirk at the thought that Brittany would love to be home for peanut butter and chocolate chip pancakes. You feel bad at the slight rush of relief you feel that she wasn't there this morning because the mess would have been enormous. You shake your head slightly with a small smile at the thought.

Your wife can be such a kid sometimes.

Some things, you would never change. Marrying Brittany Pierce by selection the _second_ you turned 18 was one of them.

Other things, though…you can't help but wonder how life could have turned out.

Sure, you pissed off your teachers all through school, but you never expected the Government to assign you as the Domestic. Honestly, you and Britt were both so _sure_ that she would be the one to stay home and have your lady babies while you did everything possible to protect her.

That was how the two of you worked.

All of it changed, though, when you received your registration card for "Santana Pierce, Domestic Partner of Brittany S. Pierce." The second the Official put your card in her hand, every right you had previously enjoyed (or at least anticipated) was gone. You can't vote. You can't work. You can't drive. You aren't allowed to file complaints or any official documents. You can't even leave the house alone after ten at night for fear of violating the curfew for Domestics.

At first, it hadn't been so bad. After all, you love Brittany so it was worth it.

It _is_ worth it.

…Most of the time.

Now, Brittany has to protect _you_. She won't leave you alone at those fancy dinners she has to go to, because even three pregnancies later, you are hot. She worries that you can't defend yourself if some sleazy coworker of hers tries to pull something. You hate that she is right. You learned quickly to keep your mouth shut when Officials started giving you crap because there was nothing you could do about it but Brittany always tried to find some way of holding them accountable.

It didn't work.

Now, you are smart enough to stay out of trouble. You would do anything for her.

Sometimes, though, you wonder if the Officials' system will end up killing you. Ten years ago, you might have rolled your eyes at the thought and called yourself a pussy.

Now, you are just being realistic.

Your first pregnancy didn't go well. Zoey was eight weeks early and you tore from V-town to Timbuktu. You spent a week in the hospital and another two under close observation. A nurse let it slip that you probably should have died.

_That_ sort of put things in a new perspective.

Three years later, you got the notice to start fertility treatments again. You tried to calm Brittany's fears, reminding her that maybe this one would be easier.

It wasn't.

The pregnancy itself was…hard. Eight weeks after being basted like a turkey at Thanksgiving, you apparently woke up bleeding and in phenomenal pain. It is always weird to think about how much of that you _don't _remember. But the fear in Brittany's eyes when you woke up and she told you what happened was enough for the story to stick. An ectopic pregnancy had almost killed you. The week in the ICU made you wish it had.

The door slams shut and you startle, realizing that you have been lost in your thoughts for a while. "Mommy!"

You smile just before a blurred lump slams against your knees.

Zoey may look exactly like you, but she's got Brittany's enthusiasm for life. You love it.

"Hey Baby Girl." You bend down to wrap her up in a quick, tight hug. "How was school today?"

She starts rattling off excitedly all about her day. There's something about the class hamster that she keeps hinting at, but you still aren't really clear and she has been talking about Benny the hamster for weeks.

"Where's Charlie?" She asks as soon as she finally stops to take a breath.

You smile. She loves her little brother. It doesn't matter that he is _always_ taking a nap at this time of day, she will always ask. You've tried changing up Charlie's schedule so that he's awake when Zoey gets home, but the little tank just gets so tired.

"Naptime." You remind her.

"Oh." She nods happily and slides her little pink backpack off her shoulders. "Can I have a cookie?" She asks innocently, her bright brown eyes wide in a pleading expression that perfectly mirrors Brittany's.

"Sure kiddo." You gently nudge her toward the table. "Start on your homework so you can play when Mom comes home."

You love your kids, but the reality of Charlie's looming third birthday means that the big clock that has been counting down is nearing zero.

Getting pregnant again could absolutely kill you.

Is this how life was supposed to be? Cleaning up cookie crumbs and pastry batter while Brittany worked her ass off in order to provide for them? You feel like you had been made for more than this, more than a death sentence looming over your head in the form of a cute little baby.

You just don't know what.

* * *

"Miss Berry, it has been a pleasure having you in our theater company." Your old boss, David Martinez, remarks, watching as you pack the last of the items in your dressing room into the boxes headed back to Lima, Ohio.

You smile politely, after all, what else are you supposed to do? "The pleasure has been all mine." You insist.

You've spent the last five years in New York and it has been _wonderful_. Late night parties are okay, but there is a thrill that comes with being a performer and living your dream. You have always wanted this.

And now it is over.

You never thought this far into the future. Your whole life has been moving toward "live in New York" and "Star on Broadway". As a child you knew that acquiring a deferral for being a performer was almost unheard of in Lima, Ohio, but somehow you made it.

At first, you thought it was some joke played by Quinn Fabray and all her career-bound lackeys. After all, as the mayor's daughter she was guaranteed to be matched with the mate of her choice and to get a cushy career delegation. But then, it finally hit you.

You had done it. You made it.

Broadway was everything you thought it would be. You started off as an understudy, learning as much as you could about the politics within the acting world. Eventually, you got a couple of chorus line parts. Those graduated into speaking parts and finally, three years ago, you got your bit part.

In high school, you would have scoffed and insisted that Rachel Berry was a star. However, you learned a lot working your way up through the ranks. Starring roles for newcomers were rare, but not as rare as people thought. There were mean sadistic directors out there that _only_ casted newcomers in starring roles. You hadn't understood at first, why new stars would head back home with only a few months under their belt in New York, but then your dancing partner had explained it.

Normally, deferrals for performers were for five years. However, to support the Officials, many native New Yorkers were assigned to work in director and other stage production roles. In order to support all of the performers who were trying to break into the acting world, New York Officials created a loophole to the five year limit. If an actor was given a starring role before residing in New York for six months was obviously _too_ talented to be performing on stage and should "take their talents back to their hometown".

In other words, newbies were sent packing.

There was some other incentive for casting newcomers that she could never remember, so it was pretty standard for shows to cast their entire show with unknowns. Generally that show would open for a few weeks to get the initial buzz with the (oftentimes choppy) original cast. Then, directors would cast actors that they _knew_ had the chops to carry the performances. _Those_ were the roles you realized you wanted. It wasn't enough to see your name in the bright shiny lights because you wanted to be remembered.

You wanted to be iconic.

So you kept working. Bit parts turned into major parts which turned into lead parts. Soon, your name _was_ surrounded by the bright lights of Broadway and you knew that this was it for you. This was all you had ever wanted.

And now it was over.

When you signed up for this, you knew the rules. Performing deferrals were limited to five years. After that, you get shipped back home to be immediately assigned a mate and a role as either Domestic or corporate spouse. Because you have used so many deferrals, you don't get to have a choice in either of them. Back then, it had just seemed like no big deal, a small hurdle in the way of achieving her ultimate goal.

Now though, it was time to pay the piper.

You finger the inside of your wrist absently and wonder if you will soon be tattooed with the Domestics' symbol for "easy identification". You have heard people say that the Domestic tattoo hurts. You've never done well with physical pain.

"When do you leave?" David asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You try not to bristle at the question, the reminder that you are done and can never come back because David is a nice guy. _David_ was lucky enough to have been born in New York and sorted into a career he loved. Though people always suggested that his distant relative had made some underhanded deals to keep him from being a Domestic, you've never really cared. David is good at what he does and, in your opinion, nothing else should matter.

Still, though, you are a little jealous.

At least the jealousy tones down your nervousness.

"Later tonight." You admit sadly, closing up the last box and raking your eyes over the now bare room.

This is it.

Now it is time to pay the price for getting your dreams.

You hope that it will be worth it.

* * *

"Good work today, Pierce." Lauren nudges you with a small smirk as she files beside you into the train car.

You smile back at her softly. She wouldn't really know if you had a good day or not, but ahead of security, she guesses that every day is a good one. You nudge her back playfully as you both find a place to stand in the crowded train car. "You too."

She laughs at that. "I didn't really do anything today."

"Well, I didn't get shot at, so that means you did your job, right?" You retort, using your classic deflection techniques. She laughs and you both settle in for the long ride home.

You are grateful she doesn't try to talk to you right now.

You really just want to get home.

Lauren's been a good friend to you. The pair of you look out for one another at work. She watches your back, making sure that some of the assholes in your department stay as far away from you as possible. You do your best to make sure she gets cushy assignments so she can make it home on time each night. Working in security can be dangerous and you've always worried that she might get reassigned to somewhere more exciting than the stark white offices you spend most of your days in. She might not have been your first choice in a friend, but she is a good one.

More importantly, the two of you watch out for Puck and Santana together. Trouble seems to follow Santana (and Puck) wherever they go. You know it is not their fault. You couldn't blame them even if you wanted to. You've seen enough to know that other Careers single Santana out.

She's gotten in enough trouble that some people have told you that you need to "teach your Domestic her place."

You hate calling Santana that. A _Domestic_, like that is some dirty word and is all that defines her. You know that if she were the Career, she would always defend you. You try to follow her example.

It doesn't always work.

You clench your jaw tightly at the thought and readjust your hand against the cool plastic hanging from the ceiling of the train. It's been a _long_ day. (Really, it's been a long week but you don't want to dwell on that). You watch out the window as the bustling city lights flash by in quick succession, and plead for it to speed up so that you can get home sooner. Looking around the train car, you roll your eyes at the fact that you even bothered.

Everyone on this car (and probably all the other train cars) is dressed similarly in the red and grey jackets that are typical of the Career wardrobe. Any other time of day there may have been one or two Domestics interspersed in the cars so it would have broken up the red and grey sea with flashes of the Domestics' blue and white apparel.

Growing up in your small suburb, you always thought the train to the city was magical. The idea of dressing up and being important enough to need to go into the city was always fascinating. When you thought about your future with Santana, you always pictured the pair of you going everywhere together. Back then, you thought as a team you would be unstoppable, gleefully blitzing through each day and find more and more magic together.

But now, you aren't that naïve anymore.

You love Santana, so much so that sometimes it hurts.

Growing up, Santana had always been your protector. With a chip on her shoulder and a quick temper, Santana had been a force to be reckoned with.

Some people might call her "fiery", but you really, really hate it when people say that too. Santana is so much more than just one word. She's passionate and beautiful. Creative and cunning. She's smart and funny. She's quick witted and can be so kind when she wants to be. She is vulnerable and soft and sometimes doesn't believe in herself enough. She likes corny romance movies but will never admit to being such a softy.

She's your soul mate.

But living here, in this world, you hate what all of the pressures of adulthood has brought to her.

It's castrated her.

Not literally, because you _love_ her lady parts. But you know that she censors herself now. It's like she's always looking around to see who is watching, afraid to laugh or cry or just be, because she's worried of what might happen.

It kills you that she has to hide that part of herself.

You feel like if people could just see her, not as your Domestic, but as a _person_ that they would be just as captivated as you are.

Truth be told, you were disappointed to be the Career. You have never said that to anyone, Santana included. You were both surprised at your assignments, but you know it is hard for her to be so dependent on everything you do.

You work as an engineer at a semi-conductor plant. Your job is actually super important and really specific. Everyone had pretty much given up on you until you took the career placement test and they realized that your brain was this mathematical super calculator that was as good at Engineering as it was at figuring out Santana. Suddenly those people who had whispered mean things about you looked at you with respect. It is weird, and you aren't certain who to trust anymore.

If you can't be around Santana every day, you figure this job is an okay substitute. But it's not really what you wanted for yourself. It is definitely not how you pictured the future.

You had always pictured lazy mornings with the kids, making muffins and toast and waffles just for fun. You had always wanted to have dinner waiting and ready the second Santana stepped through the door at night after a long day of work. That's what you had always pictured and you _know_ that is what both you and Santana wanted.

But it's not like there was anything you could do about it.

So Santana learned how to cook. She tries really hard to make sure there is breakfast waiting for you before you leave and that you can have as much un-interrupted time with the kids before you have to go to work. At night, dinner's ready and you spend time together as a family, pretending for as long as you can that this is all that matters.

But you see the fear looming over Santana every once in a while when she looks at Charlie and you know what she is thinking.

Because you are thinking it too.

If you don't find a way out of this upcoming required pregnancy, she's doomed.

(You are too, really).

What are you supposed to do without her? You try not to think about it too much because it makes you want to throw up.

You _need_ to save her from the ridiculous requirement of getting pregnant. You have to figure something out, because you _can't_ watch her in pain again. With each pregnancy you are sure that you have shaved ten years off your life. Every wince, every twinge of her face makes your heart stop. You can't help but wonder each time, _'will this be the last wince she ever makes?'_

You have to figure this out.

Not just because she would do it for you (though she would), but because you love her.

* * *

You are a stuck up bitch.

You know it is true.

You should probably feel bad, but you don't. You just want things to go your way, and unlike most people you have the opportunity to get what you want.

That doesn't make you selfish, it makes you powerful.

You smile as you sit perfectly in your chair, back straight, eyes forward, poised beyond belief, while your father's advisors drone on about town safety and other garbage. Your father, seated beside you, is following their words with feigned interest.

"Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all." He stands and you mirror his actions, aware that any hesitation will be viewed as weakness.

You follow him out of the conference room, demurely making sure to keep a good five steps behind him at all times, just the way he likes it. He opens the door to the street for you and you nod politely before going through first. You wait for him to join you and the bustling sidewalk full of people parts to go around the both of you.

So far, everything has been perfect.

Just then a woman bumps into him on the busy street.

His temper is gone in an instant. "Watch where you're going, _domestic_." Your father spits toward the woman while he straightens his jacket. "I swear, sometimes I think these domestics need a daytime curfew as well." He mutters.

You watch, slightly envious, as the woman slinks away from you and your father. "Why not?" You prod.

Sure, that seems like a dick-head law, but it wouldn't be the first time your father made up laws just because he wanted to. Domestics had it easy. They got the cushy lifestyle, staying at home, watching TV, and playing with their brat kids until the Careers came home.

Your father laughs and claps you on the shoulder. "Because then your mother would need _me_ to go shopping with her and I would rather die."

You join in his laughter because the image _is _pretty hilarious. Your father (like you) was not meant for menial tasks like the shopping. He is important, he matters.

You just want to matter too.

Call them insane Daddy issues, but you just want him to be proud of you.

You'll never admit to finding kids cute. You will never admit how once upon a time you dreamed of starting a family with someone else. The pair of you would run away together and it wouldn't matter who was assigned as the Domestic because you would be in love.

Maybe that's why you go out of your way to torment your childhood friend Santana. You aren't the only one who likes to give Domestics a hard time. Their lives are just _so_ easy. Every time you see Santana, you can't help but be a little jealous.

(Not that you would _ever_ admit that out loud).

She has everything you had ever wanted. She has the easy life, waiting around for someone who loves her.

What do you have?

You have everything at your father's house. Cars, clothes, men, and everything you could ever ask for.

But you aren't stupid.

You know it is just a house of cards waiting to tumble at the first slight breeze. Your father loves parading you around like a prized possession because you _act_ the part. If he only knew.

He is not a bad man. He just hates gays (though he can't ever _say_ that because it is unpopular) and Domestics (that one he says all the time). He's a little pig headed and a lot stubborn. He likes his house like he likes his dinner: orderly, quiet, and on time.

You are the first to admit he probably isn't the best leader. But you know that he has to pull strings to put you in line for the Mayorship and you _know_ you can do a better job than he does. You are also well aware that if he found out you liked girls then everything you have worked for would disappear in an instant.

It's just a waiting game now.

One day, it will be your turn to lead and maybe you can do away with the vindictive laws your father likes to pass.

A girl can dream.


	3. Chapter 3: Preparations (RBQS)

The train ride back to Ohio made you sad.

Every tree and building that whipped past your window only served as a reminder of everything you are leaving behind.

Everything you used to be is over.

It's hard for you to get used to that.

Your fathers were there to greet you, with a big sign and wide smiles, you could almost pretend that this was a happy occasion. For them, it probably was. For you, a woman who has tasted everything the world has to offer only to return to this town, it makes you a little melancholy.

You put on a bright smile and nod enthusiastically along with the conversation, content to be lost in your own thoughts for a while. They have fussed over you the whole way home and now you sit, idly stirring your coffee in front of you while they continue to prattle on in a feeble attempt to offer a distraction as you all wait for the mail.

Will you be assigned a husband?

A wife?

An alien love-child? (You really need to stop watching late night movies before bed).

You hate being patient. The _waiting_ is killing you. In only a few hours, your assignment will come and to be perfectly honest, you are absolutely terrified.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you have a brief fear (and hope) that maybe the computers scanning your DNA will reject you as some sort of mutant alien that is completely unfit to be matched with normal humans.

(You have never claimed your imagination was rational).

You try to refocus on whatever your fathers are talking about, but to be honest, you don't really care.

That sounds bad. You love your fathers. Whatever they are talking about is sure to be vastly important.

But you just can't help but feel like your world has already ended.

"So should we go?" Your Daddy asks excitedly.

_Go?_ You think to yourself, trying to wrack your brain for any context of what he is talking about. It is only right then that you realize you must have been drowning out their conversation for longer than you thought.

You probably should have been listening.

"Hiram." Your Dad rolls his eyes playfully. "Maybe she wants to wait so that she can see the house for the first time with her husband."

_Husband_. You bite the inside of your cheek before another word in Dad's sentence strikes you. "Wait, what house?"

Your Daddy huffs indignantly while Dad just rolls his eyes again, this time at you. "Yes, _the_ house. The house we bought for you."

Oh.

_Right_.

Your situation is different than most. For most people, just before they turn 18 their parents fill out some form that signifies whether their child will be married by selection or whether they will allow the government to make the choice for them. Parents then identify to whom their child will be married along with blood samples and the Officials prepare everything else.

You were special.

For you, just before your parents were supposed to sign the paperwork, they were notified that you had been accepted to perform. You bypassed your destiny at eighteen but now are solely at the mercy of the current officials.

Because of that, your name and DNA is already being ran through the massive databanks, filtering down the criteria down to your "perfect match" among those who are available in the small Lima community. Officials are determining your sexual preference—which kind of gives you a creepy feeling in the pit of your stomach that you push away—and charting the course for the rest of your life. You cringe at the thought that you could be the Domestic for some fifty year old drunkard who accidentally killed his last one.

Your eyes widen in horror. What if you are assigned to a murderer?

That's what you have to look forward to.

In the unlikely event you match with someone who is even remotely your age, you are guaranteed to be designated as the Domestic due to your _privilege_ of being in New York.

It was the price you paid and now the Government is here to collect.

"Rachel?" Your Daddy prompts and it's only then that you realize you drifted off again.

Your Dad seems to understand your mood and shakes his head at your Daddy.

You should be more excited, even if it is an act.

After all, you are…_were_ an actress.

The parents of Domestics are supposed to offer financial help for a new couple. While your fathers could have absolutely handed you a wad of cash and a wave farewell, you are touched that they have made such an effort. A _house_.

If you weren't consumed with thoughts of receiving the last piece of Official mail you will ever get, you might even be excited.

Things being what they are, you kind of feel like throwing up.

The doorbell rings and you nearly jump out of your chair.

Your fathers both look at you sympathetically. "The mail won't come until tomorrow." Your Dad reminds you gently.

"I know." You admit softly.

Daddy stands, aware that as a Career he has no idea what you are going through. "I'll ask whoever it is to leave."

You notice their silent communication over your head. You should be annoyed, but right now, you find it hard to care about anything.

Your live is over.

You are just going to have to get used to it.

* * *

Coming home is your favorite part of the day.

After today, when you feel the weight of everything else in your life falling apart, you cherish these moments where you can just come home.

Because what are you going to do if one day you get here and Santana's _gone_?

You aren't sure you can handle that.

You try not to think like that, but honestly? Most days it's _all_ you can think of.

You barely notice the 'For Sale' sign across the street has been taken down as you bound up your front steps, taking two at a time in your excitement to get inside.

Santana's there.

Along with the two most perfect kids you could ever ask for.

Every moment away from them sort of feels like a waste.

You jam your thumb into the fingerprint scanner that serves as the lock to your front door and burst through it like your life depends on it.

Maybe it does.

The calm structure that undoubtedly had infiltrated your suburban home dissipates instantly into chaos.

"Momma!" Zoey cries from the kitchen and you drop your bag by the front door, squatting down to catch the spitfire just as she nearly tackles you by throwing herself into your arms. Charlie isn't far behind, running along like a little locomotive. He barrels into your knees and you wince.

"Zoey!" You shout, just as excitedly. "Charlie!"

The kids both start clamoring on about their days, their voices creeping louder and louder as they try to speak over one another.

You love it.

You follow both conversations (well, Zoey's is more like a long narrative where Charlie's is a string of words you understand followed by excited words you don't) and offer input when you can tell it's wanted.

You could spend hours like this. Most of the time, you wonder if it can get any better.

Then, it does.

Santana steps out into the foyer a soft smirk on her lips and you feel as though the entire world stops.

Even now, married for several years, you think she is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. You let the kids ramble on for a minute while you mentally capture every inch of the woman standing in the doorway, content to watch you and the kids in return.

You notice the way she is picking lightly at her fingernails in her weird nervous habit and you frown at the thought that she's had a hard day.

Santana deserves to be treated like a princess.

Luckily for you, you have already thought up a game to get the kids to help.

As soon as Zoey stops for a breath, Charlie having given up on frantic story time several minutes ago in favor of playing with his truck, you put your plan in motion.

"Oh no!" You gasp dramatically, winking at Santana who smiles back with a slight scoff. She might pretend to find your antics with the kids moderately annoying, but she also lets you love her.

She knows where this is going.

Apparently the kids do too, because Zoey starts bouncing on her feet with anticipation. "What's wrong Momma, what's wrong?"

She's in that weird stage where she repeats everything if she doesn't get an immediate answer. It drives Santana crazy, but you adore it.

"Your Mommy!" You squat down to meet your kids at their level and do your best stage whisper. You can see Santana not even bothering to hide her smirk. "She's been attacked by the aliens again."

"Sleepy Aliens?" Charlie's eyes go wide and leaves his beloved truck behind. "Again? Oh no!"

"Yep. The aliens who make your Mommy sleepy because she works so hard!" You corral your kids in front of you. "You know what we need to do, right?"

"Chocolate Milk!" Charlie screams (totally right in your ear) and sprints off to the kitchen as fast as his chubby little legs can carry him.

"I'll get her slippers." Zoey grins and darts off on her own mission.

You smirk and catch Santana's eyes. "One of these days you'll convince those kids that I _am_ an alien." She groans playfully and rolls her eyes, reaching out her hand to help you from your crouched position.

You accept her help and gently tip her chin toward you as you stand, claiming her lips with your own. In that moment, you feel like you need her more than you need air. It's a feeling you are incredibly familiar with. Most days feel like this, on coming home, you just simply can't get enough of her.

"_Momma!"_ You hear Charlie whine from the kitchen. You're grateful Santana was smart enough to engage the child lock because otherwise you'd probably have milk all over the floor by now.

You try to deepen the kiss but Santana just laughs against you and pulls away. "You'd better go get him before he manages to break something." She teases, slapping you playfully on the ass.

You grin and pinch her lightly before pulling away. "Well _you_ had better go sit down so we can take care of those pesky aliens."

She laughs and follows you through the foyer. "What _ever_ would I do without you?"

"You are never going to have to find out." You grin.

You have never meant anything more in your life.

* * *

You've been summoned to your father's study. You barely have time to shut the door before he starts.

"Rachel Berry is back from New York." Your father spits, rifling through paperwork.

"What does that matter?" You frown, sitting carefully down into the chair across from him.

He looks up from the paperwork and gives you an arched eyebrow. You shift immediately, and pull down on your top in an attempt to eliminate any wrinkles that may have inadvertently cropped up.

Everything in your life is about projecting perfection.

"It matters because now I have a deferral available and have to find someone to give it to." He rolls his eyes at you. "I used to be able to sell them to neighboring townships but everyone has extra deferrals this year."

"Why? Wouldn't it be better to hand them all out?" You ask before you can stop yourself.

"To whom, _Lucille_?" He grabs a light file off his desk. "Another Queer like Rachel Berry? I only granted her deferral to New York to get her out of town. Or maybe that Pierce girl's domestic?" He laughs as though the very thought is hilarious.

"Her name is Santana." You stiffen automatically, not certain of why you would stick up for the girl you used to count as a friend but have done nothing but torment for years.

He chuckles at your insistence. You hate it. You know he finds it _cute _when you stick up for your old friends.

You hate him and love him at the same time.

All you want to do is make him proud.

But something about what he said strikes you. "Why would she need an exemption?"

Your father looks at you sympathetically. "The dyke says having another kid will be _too _hard." His voice is full of mocking. "She even managed to trick her doctors into saying the same thing."

Your mouth dries at the thought.

People only applied for exemptions if it was a life or death choice.

You clear your throat, trying desperately to hold onto some air of indifference. "So she could die? If she had another kid, she could die?"

He doesn't seem to notice your disgust. "If the rest of us are lucky." He goes back to the papers in front of him.

He can't mean that.

Sure he's a bigot and some would call him an asshole and even you think he's a dick ninety percent of the time, but _surely_ he can't be so callous.

"And what would be so wrong with giving the Queer what she wants?" You say the term even as you feel like you've punched yourself in the stomach.

"Quinn—you don't use deferrals for every bleeding heart story that comes across your desk." He shakes his head and puts his papers aside. "I thought I taught you better than this. Deferrals are given to people who can help _you_. Once they can't help you anymore, you look for the next person that can get you something. I have had to use a deferral for you since you turned 18, which _severely_ cut into my normal profits." He winks at her, "But I was happy to do it for you Princess."

You blink for a minute.

It sounds stupid, but you've never really thought about it. You've been by your father's side for so long, you thought you knew _everything_ he did.

This, though, seems beyond cruel.

He finally seems to clue into your hesitation and adds. "All of this is so you could take over when I retire or get promoted."

"So every year people petition for an exemption and you, what….trade them away?"

"What else would I do?" He asked, genuinely confused. "Oh, you'd rather that I keep people like Brittany Pierce's domestic from getting pregnant?" He laughed. "Don't be naive. She'll die and we'll find Ms. Pierce another partner."

You take a breath. You want to scream. This can't be happening. There was no way, _no way_, your father could be so cold.

You might not _like_ Santana most of the time, but sending her to die? That was monstrous.

"Of course I knew, Lucy." He rolls his eyes again like you are some petulant child trying to stay up past bed time. "You think you've been able to stay single for this long, what, because you can put on a pretty little dress and smile politely to all the people that matter?" He laughs at the though. "Come on. I know I taught you better than that."

And there it is.

A truth you've been trying to avoid throughout this conversation.

_You_, in your privileged happy life, have turned a blind eye to one simple fact: your privilege sends other people to die.

Suddenly, even the potential hope that you could one day be in charge doesn't seem like enough.

You aren't sure you can live with yourself anymore.

Your voice comes out strained and you realize that you want to cry. "So I'm just supposed to sit in our mansion on the hill and watch while people die?"

"It never bothered you before." He pointed out. "If you are going to be my successor, you can't let little things like this distract you."

Little things.

Domestics.

In his world, those terms are synonymous.

Is this really how you want your life to be? You want to scream, to freak out and put him in his place.

But you are a coward.

So instead, you nod softly and accept his 'advice'.

"Lucy, I don't have time to worry about all of your little issues." He huffs, and just like that, you know you have been dismissed.

"Yeah." You shake your head, wondering how you could have been so blind. "Thank you for opening my eyes, _sir._"

"No problem." He turns back to his work oblivious to your sarcasm.

Leaving the room, you know exactly what you have to do. It isn't something heroic or wonderful, but you _can't_ use that exemption anymore.

You sigh at the decision and hesitate only for a second before grabbing the keys to the car on the entry table and sneak quietly out the front door.

You are going to submit yourself for marriage.

Tonight.

God help you.

* * *

Brittany's got both of your kids tucked under each of her arms with your feet in her lap she reads them their story before bed time. Technically they are all 'telling you' a story, one of the final steps in Momma's cure against the aliens.

You don't know all the steps. Step 1 is something about making you comfortable. You also know step 4 is the kids eat their vegetables. The rest of them are some shared secret between your wife and kids. You can't help but find it absolutely adorable.

Really, it's just another Brittany S. Pierce take on the standard nightly routine.

You love it.

You bat Brittany's hand away with your foot when she purposefully touches a particularly ticklish spot.

She winks at you and returns to firmly massaging your feet while she reads to your two kids.

Zoey holds the book for her but you know Brittany doesn't need it.

Neither of you do.

You have this story memorized.

But Brittany doesn't bother. She makes up her own story, different each time with voices and plot twists that would make even the best author proud.

It's just a normal bed-time for your kids.

When Brittany's around, you wonder how life could get any better. _She_ is what matters in this awful world. She's bright and beautiful and smart and happy. She makes your world lighter just by walking in the room.

And moments like this, you can't help but feel like everything is perfect.

You know there is still so much wrong.

Brittany's job is stressful. Raising kids in this world sometimes makes you sick. Getting pregnant again—you don't know what you are supposed to think about that.

But with Brittany by your side it all seems manageable.

She finishes the story and shoos the kids up to bed. You stand to follow her but she pushes you back down gently. "I've got this, take a break."

You smile at the love you feel from her and wonder how you possibly could have been so lucky.

This world sucks. Being a domestic sucks. Having the fear of your life loom around every corner sucks.

But Brittany doesn't suck.

She comes back a few minutes later and plops down beside you. "How are the aliens, Mommy?"

You can't help it. You laugh delightedly. "All gone, I'm sure."

"Hmmm." Brittany muses, tapping her chin playfully and moves your feet back to her lap. "I'll be the judge of that."

You sit quietly for a minute. "How was work?" You prod.

She's not supposed to tell you. Her job is important and a little bit nerdy. When she was in training, she'd bring home all of her books and teach you what she was learning.

You've met some of the people she works with, and you _know_ that if it wasn't against the law, the two of you would make an incredible team.

"I'm working on cleaning up the conduit lines for the new project." She admits with a yawn. "The guys think it's dumb to care because that's the way it's always been done, but it's so—" She waves her hand in the air and adorably tries to think of the right word.

"Messy?"

"Yeah." She bites her lip thoughtfully. "I think if we can get the lines all cleaned up, we can increase efficiency by three percent."

You nod appreciatively. Three percent doesn't seem like a lot, but the Officials gave her a huge bonus for half a percent.

Three percent would mean a lot.

"Did you look at the release valve?" You ask gently, trying to keep the hope out of your voice.

Sometimes it's nice just to feel useful.

You don't mean to make it seem like you've been waiting all day to find out if your suggestion had merit. (Even though that is totally true.)

Brittany's always busy, so if she hasn't had time yet, it would totally not be a big deal.

No, that is a lie.

She would be devastated.

Brittany doesn't skip a beat and nods with a wide grin. "I think you pushed us forward a couple of weeks." She pinches your toe lightly. "Great job Miss Engineer."

You blush at the praise and roll your eyes. "That's Mrs. Engineer to you."

"Ooo, role play anyone?" She chuckles.

"You bet." You scoff.

She seems to sense your discomfort because she looks you directly in the eyes. "No. Seriously San, I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'll never have to find out." You echo her familiar words, well aware that most likely they aren't true.

This is how it has always been between you. It may not be exactly lawful, but Brittany knows you sometimes feel weak and insignificant. She lets you in on her projects, listens to your suggestions, and tries her best not to make you feel like a discarded member of society.

Sometimes it almost works.

She smirks, but you notice that it doesn't touch her eyes.

Crap.

You've reminded her. You know that she's been applying for exemptions for you, but you are oddly at peace with it. Maybe it's that you grew up knowing Russell Fabray hated you, but you don't really have hope for an exemption.

You're pretty certain that your days are numbered.

You just try on most days to keep her from thinking the same thing.

You swing your legs off her lap and snuggle close, pulling her in tightly against you. Her body fits so effortlessly against yours, you wonder if you were actually made for each other.

"We'll figure it out, Britt." You assure.

You see her gulp and pull her even tighter. She doesn't respond and you have a suspicion that she's trying not to cry.

"I love you." You insist firmly.

She doesn't say it back because she doesn't need to.

You try and say it often enough that if you don't make it, she'll never have to wonder how you felt.

It's a small comfort, but for now, it is all you can do.


End file.
